


On the Dot

by intangible_girl



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, a little sad, but an upbeat ending?, new york city is a character too, real places in new york
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-10
Updated: 2012-11-10
Packaged: 2017-11-18 09:14:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/559325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intangible_girl/pseuds/intangible_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Eight o'clock, on the dot, don't you dare be late."</p>
<p>He's late. He's far, far too late. But this little space in the middle of the city makes it just a little less painful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Dot

The Stork Club is closed.

Demolished, actually. Completely gone. In its place is a small park, exactly the size of the old building. Pocket parks are one of the things he likes about the future ( _the present, it’s the present now_ ) but this one just makes his chest ache. He stands outside on the sidewalk staring, ignoring the occasional jolt to his shoulder as someone shoves past him. This had been a stupid idea. He almost turns to leave, but…

Instead he walks slowly up the steps and it’s like the city falls away. The cars and the low murmur of millions of people subsume under the throaty chuckle of the waterfall that makes up the back wall. The locust trees overhead form a roof, and if he closes his eyes he can imagine he’s inside a building and that the band is taking a break and will start up again after the lead singer has taken a gulp of water. He holds to that illusion as long as he can, and then lets it drop away as he opens his eyes.

It’s not a bad little space, this quiet corner in the middle of the city. Better than an empty lot or an ugly building with no history to it. He turns in a small circle, letting the ragged gap in his heart close up a little, and he spies a small plaque near the entrance. It simply reads, “This park is set aside in memory of Samuel Paley, 1875-1963, for the enjoyment of the public.”

He doesn’t know who Samuel Paley is, but there are a million less pleasant places this spot could have become, and it will not be a hardship to sit here for an hour or so and pay homage. He sits at one of the many wire chairs and pulls out his sketchbook, and for a while he just scratches out spindly trees as his mind wanders. But inevitably, when he turns the page to a fresh one, the first thing his pencil draws is a set of dancing eyes, framed by curling hair, set above full lips. He feels the grief well up inside him, and he lets it this time, lets it wash through him and out of him, and he takes a shaky breath and draws a man and a woman dancing from as many different angles as it takes before his eyes stop burning.

He checks his watch. It’s 8 o’clock, on the dot. He takes in another shaky breath, admires the way the lights play in the waterfall, especially now that it’s dark, doesn’t look back down at the sketches. 8 o’clock comes and goes, as does a quarter after 8. At 8:30 he draws a woman at a table, alone, trying to be strong, trying not to stare at the clock, at the door, willing the impossible to happen. It’s better than doing it himself.

At 9 o’clock he closes the sketchbook and stands up, hesitates. Tries to think of something to say other than ‘Goodbye,’ or ‘I’m sorry.’ Something clever and witty, something that would make her smile, or punch him. There’s nothing.

“I’m sorry, Peggy,” he whispers. “Goodbye.”

He takes one last look around, memorizing the place. He won’t be coming back, but he’d like to be able to remember what it looks like. It’s a nice little park.

“Thank you, Mr. Paley,” he says as he leaves, and what he means is, _Thank you for making this just a little less painful._ It really is a beautiful space, a reminder that while things have changed, not all of them have changed for the worse.

He amends his earlier thought to, he won’t be coming back until next year. Next year, though, he’ll try to being a friend. Maybe even a dame, if he has one by then. Peggy would hate to think he was moping over her when there were things to be done, a life to lead. He squares his shoulders at the bottom of the steps and walks back to his apartment in Brooklyn, contemplating the least embarrassing way to tell Stark that he maybe wouldn’t mind moving into Stark Tower after all, if the offer’s still open, the place SHIELD put him up in is a little stuffy and he could do with a change of scenery.

**Author's Note:**

> Everything I know about Paley Park I learned from Wikipedia. It looks like a very pleasant little place, and I thought Steve would appreciate it.


End file.
